


all the small things (true care truth brings)

by Damkianna



Category: Battle Creek (TV)
Genre: Communication Failure, Complicated Relationships, Family Issues, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 16:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13034826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: Even after Milt's technically cleared to return to work, he's not quite up to active duty. He and Russ get sent to run a little errand instead—which is good, because they still have to work out where exactly they stand with each other, and there's also still a lot Russ doesn't know about Milt.





	all the small things (true care truth brings)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skieswideopen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skieswideopen/gifts).



> I didn't quite manage to turn this into a proper road trip fic, skieswideopen, but your prompts were all great and hopefully I succeeded in touching on a few of them in a way you'll enjoy. :D Thank you for your delightful letter, and happy Yuletide!
> 
> I should also note that no insult whatsoever is meant to Cheboygan or its police department! I know basically nothing about Cheboygan except the distance between it and Battle Creek, despite having spent a little while wandering around it in Google Street View, and have blatantly made things up to serve my own purposes.
> 
> (And, uh, sorry about the Blink 182. /o\\)

 

 

"Are you serious?"

Milt blinks, and angles a glance sideways. The moment Commander Guziewicz had called them into her office, the tone of her voice and the expression on her face had both said it wasn't for a reason she was expecting Russ to like. Milt had braced himself accordingly.

But there's a certain edge of outrage missing from Russ's tone. And to Milt's eyes, he looks—well, sour, sure. Irritated. Annoyed. But not particularly _angry_.

"Can't they just _fax_ us the damn thing?" Russ adds.

"I'm afraid not," Commander Guziewicz says, giving Russ a flat look—because of course she wouldn't waste their time sending them to go get hard copies of a file that could be faxed. "If we're going to positively ID Markham's known associates, we need photographs that look like photographs, not Jackson Pollocks. The Cheboygan police department is making an admirable effort to join us in the twenty-first century, but they haven't arrived just yet. And I'm certainly not going to ask them to mail it. Above and beyond all the other reasons that's a bad idea, they'd want us to pay for postage."

Russ acknowledges this with a grimace, rubbing his mouth.

"So!" Commander Guziewicz brings her hands together briskly, glancing at each of them in turn with an expectant little smile. "Off you go."

"Yes, ma'am," Milt says automatically, standing, and Russ rolls his eyes and makes a face but doesn't argue.

Which is weird, Milt thinks. This is exactly the kind of minor errand Russ despises, and he has to know just as well as Milt does that Milt's the only reason it's been given to them. He's been medically cleared to return to light duty, but there's still a pretty distinct twinge in his chest, and an ugly mess that hasn't finished settling down into scarring. Commander Guziewicz is very obviously being careful with him—and, by extension, being careful with Russ.

And Russ, in Milt's experience, _hates_ people being careful with him.

But even after they've left Commander Guziewicz's office, Russ doesn't snap at him or tell him it's his fault. He just sniffs and says, "Wasn't going to get anything done today anyway."

Milt swallows, but doesn't let his expression betray his uncertainty. He makes sure everything about him says _calm, pleasant, unworried_ —except, of course, he doesn't know whether that's even going to work on Russ anymore, after—

After everything.

They haven't talked about it. About any of it—Casey, Brock, the cornfield. Russ with a gun to his head; Milt with a bullet in his chest. Russ had been there in the hospital, when Milt woke up. He'd looked at Milt for a minute, waiting, until Milt had actually managed to get his eyes to focus properly, and then he'd said, "Congratulations, you're not dead," and left. Holly's the one who drove Milt home, once he could check out. He'd half-expected the recovery, his enforced absence from the BCPD, to be exactly the excuse Russ has always wanted to get himself re-partnered with Font.

But this morning he'd come in and Russ had been at his desk, waiting. And then Guziewicz had called them both into her office, together, and Russ hadn't looked surprised at all.

Still: it's important to be generous, thoughtful. It's important to take other people's feelings into account.

Milt tells himself this once, twice, and then says, "There's no need for both of us to go. I'm sure Commander Guziewicz would be happy to let you—"

"Yeah, no," Russ says loudly, over him, looking away. "With my luck, if you go alone they'll have a triple homicide just sitting around that they could _really_ use the FBI's resources on, and before I know it I'm driving up there anyway, except a lot later today and even more pissed off about it." He clears his throat, and then—still without looking over—gestures vaguely in the general direction of Milt's collarbone. "Besides, we can't send you by yourself. You're still all hurt and stuff."

His mouth twists up once he's done saying it, like the words tasted sour on their way out. But he doesn't take it back; and Milt looks at him and thinks about him kneeling in the corn, Brock's gun at his temple, _I'm not going anywhere_.

 _That's very considerate of you, Russ_. That's what Milt should say. He can imagine just the tone of voice he'd use to say it, the delivery: low, pleasant, warm in the way people are so willing to confuse for sincere.

"Thanks, Russ," Milt says instead, quietly, and Russ flicks him a quick assessing glance and then looks away again, rolling his shoulders.

"Yeah, whatever," he says. "Just let me pull together what we've already got on Markham. You can look at it in the car."

"Of course," Milt agrees.

Because it's true: he'll have plenty of time. It's at least three hours to Cheboygan, even the way Russ drives. There and back will easily take up the whole day.

The whole day, Milt thinks again, slowly. And then, as if from a distance, he hears himself add, "I just have a quick call to make."

"Sure," Russ says, still turned away, and Milt takes advantage of his inattention to walk out into the lobby, with the steady measured pace of someone who's totally fine.

 

 

*

 

 

He probably shouldn't have come in today. It would hardly have been an issue if he'd taken another day, or even two. But he'd—

He'd hoped the work would distract him, make this easier. And instead he's going to be in a car with Russ all day, with a handful of files that aren't going to take a roundtrip to Cheboygan to get through and a bunch of pain medication he's still supposed to be taking, and nothing else to think about except—

He draws in a long slow breath, and looks down at his phone. He's not going to call. He's not. He lets himself unlock the screen, even enter the number—ignoring the autofill trying to do it for him, because he wants to do it himself. He wants to watch himself dial, drag it out, make it fill as much space as possible. So that next to all that, not hitting "call" at the end will feel less significant.

When he's run out of numbers, he just stares at the screen. He doesn't hit "call". And he keeps not hitting "call" until the phone goes black, temptation mercifully removed.

That's good, he tells himself. That's what he was supposed to do. That's who he is now: he does what he's supposed to, and doesn't mind doing it.

Big smile, he thinks, and he puts the phone away and walks briskly back into the office to find Russ.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There are two things wrong with this picture.

One, that definitely did not take long enough to be a real phone call. Milt stepped out, Russ breathed a sigh of relief and let himself look up from the desk, and then boom, just like that, Milt's back—holding the office door open politely for Holly, because of course he is.

And two, he's smiling.

Which isn't wrong in and of itself, except for how Russ has basically always resented the way Milt smiles at people. But right before Milt went out, the look on his face when he'd said _Thanks_ in that weird quiet way—he hadn't been smiling. He'd looked a little stiff, a little tired; a little like a guy whose pain meds maybe had started wearing off.

And now he's smiling at Holly like there's nothing wrong with him. Which is pinging Russ's bullshit detector—and he's got a particularly finely-tuned model, thank you, Mom—like nobody's business.

A month ago, Russ would've taken this cue and thoroughly ignored it. Because what the fuck did he care if Milt had gone off to take a weird clearly-not-a-phone-call, and came back after smiling like a dentist's tooth-whitening poster? Not his problem.

But Milt is Russ's partner now. For real, not just because Guz assigned them or Milt forced it to happen, or however else. For real. Milt is Russ's partner, and this is his first day back after getting shot in the chest, and Russ has never been all that good at letting things go anyhow.

"You okay?"

He tries to make it conversational, only glances up after he's said it—but Milt is looking back at him a little warily.

"Fine," Milt says, and then reaches up to rub a little at his chest, without seeming to realize he's doing it.

"Yeah?" Russ presses. "When's the last time you took your meds?"

Milt's hand drops. "It's fine, Russ," he says, and then, "I—do appreciate your concern."

And fuck, maybe that was too much. Russ looks away and rubs at his mouth. Milt is Russ's partner now—but it's hard to figure out exactly what that's supposed to mean. He's not just going to start treating Milt the same way he'd treat Font, except he can't keep treating Milt the way he used to, either. Not if this partnership thing is going to stick. And seeing as Russ almost got himself shot in the head for it, it had better fucking stick.

It's just hard to know where to start. And—

And the way it happened maybe isn't helping. Russ had handled Milt's absence okay, and it hadn't been difficult. Milt had been at the hospital, and then at his apartment, because it wasn't like Holly would have let anything happen to him. And Milt was the kind of person who actually followed doctors' instructions about bed rest and shit, right? So as long as he'd been recovering, Russ had figured he was all right.

But now he's back in the office. Back in the office, back out in the world: exactly where he was the last time some guy decided it would be a great idea to blow him up and kidnap him and stuff him in a trunk. Had he gone running in the park this morning? The whole idea makes Russ's gut clench—but no, Milt's probably still supposed to try not to exert himself too much. Russ has got to have another week or two at least before he needs to worry about that.

He knows he should have been madder about this game of fetch Guz is making them play. But damned if some part of him isn't just a little bit glad, to think he's going to be stuck in a car with Milt all day. And not in the fucking trunk, this time. Nobody's going to be blowing Milt up without Russ knowing about it. Not today.

He'd thought he'd managed to put it all to rest, while Milt was gone. But with Milt right in front of him again, he can't stop thinking about the cornfield. About having his hands pressed down over Milt's chest, Milt's blood welling up between his fingers; listening to his own stupid voice say dumb shit like _You're okay, you're going to be okay_ , over and over and over. Like somehow that's still what he should be doing, right now. Like Milt's still bleeding, somewhere, and Russ can't take his hand off, can't look away, until he's sure it's stopped.

"—everything on Markham? ... Russ?"

"Yeah, what," Russ says, automatic, and right: Markham. He snatches up the files Holly pulled and shoves them at Milt. "Yeah, yeah, we got what we need. Come on, let's go."

 

 

*

 

 

The first chunk of the trip isn't so bad. Milt's got the file to go through, so he doesn't even try to offer to drive. Russ gets them out of Battle Creek and onto 69 without making a single dirty joke, which constitutes a pretty monumental effort on his part.

They circle partway around Lansing before turning north, and Russ is sort of distracted by the traffic until he's got them securely on 127.

And then he realizes Milt is _still_ looking at the file, and oh, there goes the bullshit detector again.

He sneaks a glance over, and yeah, the file's the same size he remembers it being: not that thick. The whole reason they're stuck driving to Cheboygan is because the BCPD doesn't have much to speak of on Markham.

But Milt is scrutinizing each page like it's the goddamn Rosetta Stone, like there's anything in there to see except the negative space outlining all the shit they don't know about Markham. Like he's trying to drag it out, Russ thinks—and maybe he is. Maybe he just doesn't want to run out of reading material, when they've still got like two hours to go.

It's plausible. But not quite convincing. When Milt's decided something's really worth doing, he's all in, totally focused, and not even Russ's most strident complaining can dent him. But right now, he's not like that. He seems—tense. Strained. He's _looking_ at the pages in front of him, but suddenly Russ isn't so sure he's _reading_ them. He's even sort of fidgeting a little, shifting his weight once and then again.

Russ leaves him to it for another half an hour, mostly because he can't think what to say about it anyway. And then Milt suddenly shuffles the papers aside, and—gets out his phone?

Russ listens to the tap of fingers against smartphone screen, counting absently: a couple stray ones, and then three, three, four—

A phone number. Except if that's what it is, Milt doesn't hit "call". He doesn't lift the phone to his ear. He stares down at the screen and breathes in, out, in again, even and regular and perfectly calm. And then the phone goes black, idle, and Milt slides it back into his pocket with a casual ease that makes Russ's hackles rise just watching him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He didn't hit "call". That's good. That's what he's supposed to do. He didn't even make a big deal out of it. Which is because it's not a big deal. It's fine.

He nudges the papers in the file in his lap back into order—he'd tipped them sideways a little, getting his phone out. And then he glances over at Russ and feels his gut sink.

Because Russ is looking back at him.

Only for a second, and then his eyes are back on the road; but that means he noticed. And if he noticed, he's going to ask.

Which is the last thing Milt wants, because what can he say? He doesn't _want_ to lie, but—but Russ has already put up with more than enough of Milt's personal issues, Milt's past, Milt's problems. He shouldn't have to do it again, even for something as minor as this.

He still hasn't decided how he'll answer when Russ glances at him again, and Milt sits there in the passenger seat and tries desperately not to tense up. It's fine, he thinks. Big smile, big laugh. It's not a big deal, and he can say as much, and Russ will believe him because it's the truth. It's fine.

But he waits for it, and waits for it, and Russ doesn't say anything. After three or four minutes, Milt starts to think maybe he isn't going to after all. And is that better, or worse? If Russ isn't asking because he thinks it's not fine—because he thinks it's not fine and doesn't trust Milt to tell him as much—

It's a reprieve. It's a reprieve, and Milt should be grateful for it and leave it at that.

 

 

*

 

 

And it's a reprieve that lasts. When Russ does start talking, it has nothing to do with Milt at all.

"Ridiculous," he says, out of nowhere, like he's continuing a conversation they were already having. "I mean, can you believe this? Sending us off to run errands like we're FedEx. I didn't get in trouble while you were gone. I was great. Totally professional. Zero reason for Guz to punish me like this—"

And this, this is familiar. Milt knows exactly what to say, to this. "It's not a punishment, Russ," and he's so relieved to be on steady ground that his tone comes out even brighter than he'd intended.

"Yeah? That so?" Russ says, and Milt thinks maybe he sounds a little relieved, too. "I guess you'd think so, huh, because you'd _love_ being stuck in a car all day with you. The two of you'd get along just fine."

And that makes Milt laugh, a quick sharp bark. They'd have some choice words for each other, two of him—except of course they'd agree on those words, on how much he deserved to hear them, so maybe that would count as getting along after all. "It's not a punishment," he says again. "Commander Guziewicz didn't make this up, Russ. Someone would have had to do it."

"Sure, and it might as well be us," Russ mutters. Milt's half-expecting him to say what he must be thinking—that it's Milt's fault, Milt and his injury. Russ is fine; there's nothing keeping him from doing a normal workload, except for Milt.

But that's not what happens.

Russ is silent for a beat instead. And then he says slowly, "So that's it, huh?" He glances across the car at Milt, split-second, and then back to the road in front of them. "That's what you tell yourself?"

Milt swallows, wets his lips, and lets himself say, "Yes."

"Huh." Russ goes quiet again, and then clears his throat. "You believe it?"

 _Of course I do._ That's what he should say. That's what he'd say if he were the person he's supposed to be. "I want to," is what comes out instead, and that has to be good enough. Russ already knows Milt's hardly perfect; he won't be surprised. Which is—almost comforting, oddly enough. "I try to."

Russ has to hit the brakes, then, to accommodate someone ahead of them turning left, and his focus is all on the road. Hardly a bad note for the conversation to end on.

But once the slowdown has cleared, Russ hits the gas again and then says thoughtfully, "You remember that time I tried to get you to open up? Like, wanting to trade personal crap so you'd tell me something true about yourself?"

"Which you decided was best accomplished by lying to me," Milt says.

"Yeah, yeah," Russ says, "I was an ass, big surprise. Anyway—I figure what you just said sort of counts. Which means I owe you something."

"You don't—" Milt starts, automatic, and Russ cuts him off with a sharp noise.

"Man, will you just shut up and listen? I'm trying to share of myself, here, Milt."

Russ sounds so exasperated that Milt abruptly has to bite down on a smile. "Of course, Russ," he manages to say, relatively evenly. "My apologies."

" _Thank_ you," Russ huffs. "And what I was going to say was—look, all that time I was pissed off at you? It wasn't you, exactly. I meant it when I said I didn't not like you. I just—" He stops and blows out a breath. "I don't know. I thought you were trying to con me." He looks over at Milt, quick, and then back at the road. "I didn't understand then. I didn't get that you were trying to con yourself."

Milt blinks. There's something about Russ's choice of words that's a little unnerving. "Russ—"

"But I get it now," Russ barrels on. "Okay? I get it. All that stuff you were trying to make me believe about you—I thought you were trying to trick me. But you weren't, not really. I get it. You were trying to make yourself believe it, too."

And that's—not completely wrong. Even if Milt wouldn't have said it that way. "All right," Milt hears himself say; and Russ nods, still looking fixedly out the windshield instead of at Milt, and then swears and hits the brakes just fast enough to keep them from smacking into someone trying to pull a really inadvisable u-turn.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The police station in Cheboygan is pretty easy to find, in a certain sense—it's in the same building as the fire department, City Hall, and, of all things, an opera house.

"Man, they got even less space than we do," Russ mutters.

The chick handling records is younger than Russ was expecting, bright-eyed and ponytailed and snapping a wad of gum between her teeth. She looks pretty pleased to see them, though, which—yeah, okay, most days she probably doesn't have a whole hell of a lot to do.

Except data entry, apparently. "We're trying to switch over to digital," she explains, "but—" and she gestures behind her toward an open door; Russ can see part of the room beyond through it, and the stacks of boxes that are in there. "It's kind of a lot to go through. I've been adding to the database, scanning files—in between answering the phone and filling actual records requests, and I'm only part-time anyhow." She shrugs a shoulder, a tacit _What can you do?_

Russ thinks about busted wires and fried tazers, and yeah, he knows that feeling.

Milt, of course, smiles and agrees and talks to her about what she'd do with a full-time position, her hopes and dreams, yadda yadda. Eventually Russ manages to get them back on track, and the chick heads off to spelunk her way through the filing room. Milt's still standing next to her desk, but god only knows how long it's going to take; Russ settles himself into one of the chairs along the far wall.

It's been about twenty minutes when it happens. Russ only has like a third of his attention on Milt, but he still notices the gradual increase in Milt's twitchiness. And usually Milt doesn't get like that. Usually Milt seems to almost make it a point of pride to be totally patient and comfortable, at times like this.

And he was like this in the car, too—that's what Russ is thinking, idly pondering, when Milt finally stops twiddling his thumbs and slides a hand into his pocket. And he'd almost managed to fucking forget, jesus, but there it is again: the phone. This morning, and then in the car, and then now, and three weird not-a-phone-calls is definitely a pattern.

Because that's exactly what this is. Same as in the car; and all right, Russ doesn't know for _sure_ that Milt did the same thing when he wandered off this morning, but he figures the odds are pretty goddamn good. Milt unlocks the phone, enters eight digits, nine, ten, eleven—and Russ can see the autofill suggestion come up partway through, but Milt doesn't take it. He doesn't take it, and he doesn't hit "call" either. Just stares at it, and—

Fuck. Russ squints. The autofill has a contact name attached, but Russ can't quite read it from here. Short—maybe a nickname? Maybe—

"Here we go," says Records Chick brightly, coming back out of the file room with a box in her hands, a second box balanced on top.

And it's Russ's lucky day, because the second box starts to tip, just barely, when she turns to tug the file room door shut with her elbow. Milt sees it, because of course he does, and he's so much closer than Russ; and he starts forward to round the desk and sets his phone absently down on the corner of it.

Only a handful of seconds left before the screen blanks out and the phone locks itself, but Russ had already lurched up out of his chair, and one step, two, gets him just close enough to bring the letters into focus.

 _Mom_ , Milt's phone says, white clean sans serif, and even after the phone goes black the after-image hangs around on the backs of Russ's eyelids, unmistakable.

"Easy there," Milt is saying with a smile, and he caught the box, because of course he did. Records Chick is smiling back at him appreciatively, and yeah, okay, Milt's got this. Russ can afford to give himself a minute.

He backs up and settles down again in his chair, and lets the sound of Records Chick picking out Markham's associates for Milt wash past in the background. Milt is almost-but-not-quite-calling his mom. His _mom_. That's weird all by itself. Yeah, Milt's talked about being a kid in fucking Monaco, high school in Tehran, but somehow in Russ's imagination he still always looked like himself, suit and tie and everything. Like he just sort of popped into being, fully-formed, stick already wedged in place up his ass.

But he didn't. He's got a mom. A mom he's not-calling; and it's important, with the way he's dithered over it, three times in a row, but not urgent. Right? If it were urgent, if he were worried for her health or safety, surely he'd just call the local police, or whatever other FBI field office is closest—or, hell, the CIA, if she's abroad somewhere. It's Milt. But he's not doing that, he's just not-calling. And—

And he doesn't want Russ to know he's doing it. Or at least he's trying not to draw attention to it. Excusing himself this morning, and the look on his face when he realized Russ had noticed him in the car.

Which, of course, automatically makes Russ about ten thousand times as curious about whatever the hell is going on.

He stands up. Milt is holding a handful of files, Records Chick double-checking both boxes to make sure she hasn't missed anything; it's as good a time as any.

"Hey," he says, breaking into their meaningless polite chitchat. "I, uh," and this is going to sound like the worst excuse in the world, but Milt can hardly call him on it, right? "I got to make a call."

Sure enough, Milt's eyes narrow a little, but all he says is, "All right, Russ."

"See you upstairs," Russ adds, and then he makes a break for it.

 

 

*

 

 

"And you're absolutely sure?"

"Sure I'm sure," Erin says, sounding both confused and faintly offended. "I'm reading it right off the screen, Russ. Olivia Chamberlain, née Tilney, is still alive."

Damn. That had been Russ's best guess; kind of messed up, keeping your dead mom's name in your phone, but messed up in what Russ is starting to think would be a really Milt way.

"How do you know?" Russ demands. "Where are you even looking?"

"Why did you call me if you didn't think I'd be able to find out?" Erin says, exasperated, and then, "She's got a Facebook, obviously."

Russ grunts, grudging acknowledgment, still turning the whole thing over in his head. If she's not dead, then what could it possibly be about? Nothing's happened to Milt any more recently than getting shot; things have been _deliberately_ not happening to Milt, that's why Guz sent them on this ridiculous little errand in the first place. So what could make Milt want to talk to his mother so much—and today, today specifically? Important and time-sensitive, but still somehow not urgent, not an emergency ...

And that's Milt's footsteps coming up the stairwell, the sound of him thanking Records Chick drifting up afterward—he's got everything, then.

"Okay," Russ says into the phone. "Thanks, Erin," and he hangs up and turns just in time to see Milt reach the landing. "There you are, geez. How much did they have on Markham, anyway? Come on, let's get the hell out of here."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Russ is still grumbling a little on the drive back, about time-wasting busywork and Commander Guziewicz being a "pain in his ass"; but there's no edge in it, and Milt almost finds himself smiling, listening to it.

"It was important," he murmurs, after letting Russ go on for a bit.

Russ snorts. "Yeah, yeah. Go on, I know you're just itching to give me the whole Pollyanna routine—"

"It was important," Milt repeats. "Even if it doesn't seem like it. Little things can be important."

He's expecting Russ to mock him some more. But Russ glances at him and then away, bites his cheek and taps his fingers against the steering wheel, and then says slowly, "Yeah. Yeah, I guess." He pauses and looks at Milt again, and says, "You just saying that because you think it's the right thing to say? Or you mean it?"

"Both," Milt says, because—because it is both.

But Russ looks unconvinced. "So you believe it," he says. "You get that little stuff counts, too."

"Sure," Milt agrees, bewildered. Where is Russ going with this?

"Like, for example, that it doesn't always have to be about getting stuffed in a trunk and almost shot by some guy on a years-long mission of revenge, and telling me every detail of the worst thing that ever happened to you."

Oh. That's where.

"You can tell me little stuff," Russ is adding, glancing ahead of them and then signaling to pass. "Just because it's there. No guns to anybody's head."

"Yeah," Milt hears himself say, over the sudden unsteady pounding of his heart. "Yes, of course."

"Okay. Good."

Little stuff, Milt thinks. Stuff that's not a big deal, but he could talk to Russ about it anyway. Not because anyone's making him, not because it's caught up to him and there's no other choice. Just because it's there.

He looks out the window, toward the sunset, and doesn't see it. His phone is in his hand, though he can't remember just when he pulled it out of his pocket, and he turns it over and over and over in his palm and doesn't let himself unlock it.

 

 

*

 

 

They reach the BCPD just as the office is starting to empty out—no big cases came in while they were gone, then, or everyone would be staying late.

Russ seems to come to the same conclusion: a certain tension leaves his shoulders. Holly's already left for the day, so they leave the Markham files on her desk. And then Russ says, "Oh, just take your meds already," and that's when Milt realizes with a start that he's been pressing a hand to his chest.

It's not that bad. But it does ache a bit.

"Seriously," Russ says, and shoves him in the shoulder—the other shoulder. "Go on. I'll let Guz know we didn't strangle each other in the car."

And for once Milt allows himself not to argue. He gets a cup of water from the water cooler and heads back into the FBI office, settling behind his desk with a sigh, and only then does he let himself fish his pain medication out of his pocket.

He swallows a little extra water to help get rid of the aftertaste once the pills are down, and then—

Then he just sits there for a minute. It's funny, how tiring it can be to do almost nothing, to just sit in a car for six or seven hours. He rubs his face, and, absently, only half thinking about it, pulls his phone out of his pocket and sets it on the desk.

Which means it's still there when Russ shoves the door open and sticks his head in. "Hey, man," he says, and Milt jumps in surprise and blinks at him. But he's not looking at Milt anymore; he's looking at the phone.

And he—he knows, Milt thinks. He can tell there's something going on with Milt today, even if he doesn't know what. He practically said as much, in the car. Said as much, and asked Milt to talk to him about it. _You can tell me little stuff._

Milt looks down at the phone, the black screen. He taps it, unlocks it, and dials, slow, one number at a time, and Russ just stands there in the doorway watching him. He dials and then he doesn't hit "call" and doesn't hit "call" and doesn't hit "call", and when he's done that for long enough, the screen rewards him and goes black.

"It's my mother," he says aloud, without looking up. Easier to tell the phone than to tell Russ. "She's not speaking to me. But today—" He stops, and has to clear his throat. "Today is her birthday. I used to call her every year, no matter where I was assigned."

"So just do it, man," Russ says, after a moment.

Milt shakes his head. "No. No, I—she chose not to stay in contact with me, and I need to respect that."

"Milt—"

"You don't understand," Milt says, shaking his head again. "It's not her fault. She's making the choice that's best for her. I had a rough patch, after—"

His throat closes up again, and this time clearing it won't help. He's tired and his chest hurts, medication slow to kick in, and it's been such a long day, in so many ways.

But Russ doesn't push. He just nods. "After the kid died," he says, quiet.

"Yes. I—didn't handle it well," but no, that's minimizing, that's papering it over, and he shouldn't be doing that to Russ right now. "No, it was worse than that. _I_ was worse than that. I made a lot of bad decisions. I wouldn't listen to anybody trying to tell me as much, or help me. I didn't want to hear it.

"I did and said a lot of things she shouldn't have had to deal with, and she knew it. And she let me know it, too. Which is fair. It's just—"

"It's just today's her birthday," Russ fills in.

Milt closes his eyes, closes his hand around the phone. "Yeah," he says.

Russ is silent for a moment; long enough for Milt to get a grip and look up, and when he does, Russ doesn't look annoyed or impatient or anything else Milt might have been expecting. He just looks sort of—sorry.

"Well, for the record," he says, "I think that's bullshit. You met my mom, man. Dealing with each other's shit even though we shouldn't have to is basically what 'family' means, in my experience." He shrugs one shoulder, a little awkwardly. "But, you know, you're weird, and also wrong about everything. So I guess it's no surprise that your mom's weird and wrong about everything, too. Had to get it from somewhere."

And that makes Milt laugh just a little through his nose.

"Anyway," Russ says briskly, with a sniff. "Want to get a beer?"

Milt blinks. "The last time I asked you that—"

"—I said no, I was a jerk, let's move on! Want to get a beer or what?"

Milt thinks about it. He does. But— "I appreciate the invitation. But alcohol is contraindicated with my pain medication, Russ."

Russ makes a face at him. "I said _get_ a beer, Milt. I'll drink yours for you if I have to. Now come on already, will you?"

And Milt looks at him, waiting there in the doorway, eyebrows raised; and then down at the phone; and then he picks the phone up and stands, and puts it back in his pocket, and lets himself say, "Okay. Okay, I'd love to."

 

 


End file.
